[i][h3]East of the Neketalan Peninsula, roughly One Hundred miles from the Coast. [/h3][/i]


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	These were no seas for inexperienced sailors nor captains faint of heart. The heaving waves smashed against the new age steamer’s steel-clad hull testing her riveted frame to its limit. Manarite driven engines churned the great gear wheels working the propellers that drove the vessel forward at unnatural speeds faster than even the most maneuverable coal powered frigate. Like a great seabird, soaring across open skies she raced upon the water, leaving a foamy grey-black trail in her wake. The cruiser [i]Komet[/i] presented an impressive sight of new technology and she cut across the violent waters of the off the southern peninsula of the hated Neketalan colony in an open defiance of territorial waters. The Royal Captains of the Conquerdia navy were growing bolder by the day, and Lord Captain Geoff Numernorf was no exception. With the mighty [i]Komet[/i] under his experienced hand he had once again dared the mighty Neketalan navy, sweeping into disputed waters and nearly collied with a ponderous cargo hauler. An impact that would have greatly favored the steel hulled warship had the victim not tacked hard to port, nearly capsizing and losing a great deal of her valuables overboard into the depths. A few Neketalans might have gone over as well, and Numernorf smirked in sadistic pleasure at the thought of them being dragged beneath the surface by their waterlogged tails, never to be seen again.

	The human officer allowed himself and quick glance over his shoulder, his eyes catching no sign of pursuit through the water drenched panes. Not that it would have done the abominations any good he thought. The sun might be their ally, but the winds were at his back, and his god would never abandon him. A terrible wave rose ahead, catching the cruiser roughly midships, knocking her off course. Numernorf barked an order and the helmsman was quick to adjust the wheel, bringing the [i]Komet[/i] back on course, North, by Northeast towards Conquerdian controlled seas. Although unofficially sanctioned by the Duel Monarchy a lone ship on a raid through rival waters could expect little aid south of the river Laun. Caught out here in open waters after aggressive action would mean certain death or worse, most likely sacrificed to the sun. A fate Numernorf and the two hundred sailors under his command did not wish to experience.

	“Ship away, northwest, ten miles and closing!” The lookout’s warning came, barely audible over the ocean’s rage. A fresh energy came across the crew, they did not know how, but a ship had appeared ahead of them, traveling perpendicular to their course as if to cut them off. Whether by design or pure luck they had been caught red handed. A moment of panic swelled within Numernorf, but he shoved it away as foolish cowardice, the battle-song swelled in his heart. “No sign of a standard," the lookout continued his report, "but she looks to be a heavy cruiser, with cannon aplenty.”

	“General quarters, ready at the guns!” Numernorf ordered, not that the six-inch double barreled turrets would do them much good. They had no chance of scoring an accurate broadside in these conditions. At least, the low decked cruiser would prove an even tougher target for the enemy gunnery crews. For the moment the Conquerdian ship would be unidentifiable, flying no standard or markings that would betray their “unofficial” trespass, but it would not be difficult for the Neketalans (if that was who sailed the approaching ship) to summarize what was happening. After all, similar events had been occurring all throughout the summer as tensions continued to ramp up along the border. “Ahoy lookout, have they spotted us yet?” One of the tremendous advantages of his modernized manarite driven pistons was its lack of smokestacks. Without the clouds of billowing black smoke, the ship proved exceedingly difficult to detect. An expensive, yet effective solution to avoiding pursuit. Conquerdia had three now, and a fourth nearing completion and Numernorf was sure as hell not going to be the first captain to lose one of the new prides of his nation, especially not to a Neketalan.

	“Uncertain sir, she’ll be cutting across our bow left to right and she isn’t adjusting course.”

	Numernorf could detect an edge of fear in the young lookout’s voice, echoing his own concerns. For all their bluster and her enormous price tag the [i]Komet[/i] and her sister ships were not battle tested. The captain stroked his beard in thought as he considered their options. They could cut southeast, flee for friendly ports in the Gukou colony, or maybe even Bessaruga. Or they could test the full potential of their manarite engines and make a mad dash. Engaging in a uncertain naval battle against a larger ship was a step too far, even for the aggressive border policy of Conquerdia. Whatever occurred it wouldn’t be long until they were spotted, and he needed to make his decision fast. The captain grinned, a fire burned within, and he had always been a cocky son of a bitch. Besides, why were they paying for these fancy engines if they never got to really use them? He spun on his heel, issuing orders left and right with gusto. “Send my regards to engineering, and have them prepare to feed the cores to full capacity, and open up the drive shafts. On my order give her everything she’s got. Lookout, inform me as soon as we’re spotted and the enemy brings her guns to bear or adjusts course. Helm, keep us steady on and away, ride between the waves and give us as much time as possible before we’re seen.”

	“Aye my lord!” Came the chorus as the men scattered to fulfill their orders.

	Turning Numernorf faced the oddest man present on the bridge. It was a hooded figure, dressed in drab grey with a bright red cross upon his chest. It was a strange and archaic garb compared to the blue and bright orange uniforms of Conquerdian sailors. The man sat cross legged upon the bridge’s deck, his hands folded into a strange symbol. His garments fluttered and shifted, as if a rouge breeze was playfully tugging at the fabric.

	“Priest, your services are needed. Will the gods grant me favor?”

	The priest’s eyes fell shut and he whispered, the playful ghostly tugging at his clothing growing more intense as he communed with beings of magic. At last he opened his eyes, an almost childish grin alighting his face. “The wind is playful and daring, and admires your boldness. What favor can he gift you?”

	“I need a push.” Numernorf laughed, “A big one at just the right moment…”